think • aag

Chocolate Ice Cream

Aug 302010

Imagine living in a country where we are free to eat any sort of ice cream that we desire — or, for that matter, no ice cream at all.

In this frosty land the government wouldn’t show a preference for eaters of any particular flavor. There would be no test before being granted a job or any other benefit. An employer couldn’t inquire “Do you eat chocolate ice cream?” at an interview, as your preference matters not a bit in your ability to work or receive.

Schools would not sell ice cream, but neither would they stand in the way of students bringing their own. One student likes vanilla? Go right ahead, the school would say. Eat up. Enjoy. Another likes chocolate? Have at it. Just don’t try to shove your butter brickle down the throats of your table-mates, or scream that they’ll burn in hell for their scoops of strawberry.

Would schools teach about the various kids of ice cream available in the larger world? Perhaps, in the right subject area. If responsible science agrees that one should eat a balanced diet and not just ice cream, or that one should avoid the varieties to which one is allergic, or that utterly no research has shown a correlation between ice cream consumption and pedophilia, then those ideas should be shared.

Privately, however, citizens could shout out their ice cream beliefs no matter how unscientific to the high heavens with no interference. You think chocolate ice cream is the very best? Set up a store and serve nothing but. If you feel so strongly, prohibit vanilla-eaters from crossing your threshold. Go right ahead, if you wish, and incorporate The Church of Chocolate Ice Cream; preach each Sunday about the evils of Neapolitan and refuse to marry any but the most ardent chocoholics.

From the sidelines I might think you a very great fool, but I would not interfere. I would not interfere because, given enough time and the vagaries of reproduction, chocolate ice cream might not always be the ice cream of choice and The Church of Chocolate Ice Cream might not always be the most powerful; meaning that churches and governments should be as far removed from one another as can possibly be managed and that each one should stay out of the other’s business.

Why is this so hard to understand?

This is a Thing I Need to Remember

Aug 172010

When presented with something that makes no sense to me, my initial reaction always is to assume that there’s been a failure in my reasoning abilities.

I need to remember that sometimes, just sometimes, a thing makes no sense to me because it makes no sense, and no matter how many times I turn it over in my head it will not make any more sense than it did at the start.

How much simpler would life be if I could keep that thought in my head?

“When we remember we are all mad,
the mysteries disappear and life stands explained.”
Mark Twain

"God Did Not Create Anal Sex"

Jul 302010

The scene: Intrepid interviewer approaches Catholic priest during NOM’s summer bus tour; Catholic priest spends seven minutes in increasingly convoluted justification for the church’s opposition to marriage equality.

Watch along, or just read this particularly fun sound-bite:

“If you want to get to the nuts and bolts of it in the male homosexual world, I think the most heinous act is anal sex. Now, if anybody were to think about that in truth, they would say one person is being harmed by this act, which is why there are so many gastrointenstinal afflictions that come to many homosexuals that do this, and other kinds of afflictions. When you look at that individual act, you say, ‘Did God create that? No way.’ And would you ever want one of your children or grandchildren to be submitted to that kind of act? No.” (transcript via Joe. My. God.)

Make sure to watch at 6:05, when he talks about how the interviewer’s friend looks gay. Brilliant.

For the record: This mostly-straight mother has no opinion on whether or not she would want her children or grandchildren to try anal sex.

However, if they should decide to partake I feel almost entirely certain that God won’t care one bit about it.

Like a Ride in an Amusement Park

Jul 092010

The world is like a ride in an amusement park, and when you choose to go on it you think it’s real, because that’s how powerful our minds are. And the ride goes up and down and round and round, and it has thrills and chills and is very brightly colored, and it’s very loud. And it’s fun, for a while.

Some people have been on the ride for a long time, and they’ve begun to question, “Is this real, or is this just a ride?” and other people have remembered, and they’ve come back to us and they say “Hey, don’t worry. Don’t be afraid, ever, because this is just a ride.” And we kill those people.

“Shut him up! We have a lot invested in this ride! Shut him up! Look at my furrows of worry. Look at my big bank account, and my family. This just has to be real.”

It’s just a ride.

But we always kill those good guys who try and tell us that. You ever noticed that? And let the demons run amok. But it doesn’t matter, because, it’s just a ride.

–Bill Hicks, via Fuck Yeah Existentialism

When I’m tempted to mourn over ten-thousand things that have gone contrary to my meticulous plans I need to remember this. Persistent indignity or enormous happiness should matter far less to me than they do, and maybe some day I’ll learn to meet each fear and joy with equanimity rather than grasping, compassion rather than anger.

I’m 41 now. Maybe by the time a new decade rolls around I’ll have it down?

The Shining Whiteness of the Bridal Gown

Jun 302010

The shining whiteness of the bridal gown, symbolizing purity and the power that purity conveys, has been stained — or smudged, if you will — by pornography, sex before marriage, marital infidelity, divorce, abortion and, now, so-called marriages between people of the same sex.

Like the dirty oil that pours uncontrollably into the waters of the Gulf, this withering tide of immorality at times seems impossible to control. No one has been successful in stopping the onslaught, since many parts of our society share a mistaken view of human freedom. When used properly, freedom is good and life-enhancing, but when misapplied, freedom works against life.

Not all free actions are moral; and not all actions that are legal are good. In the case of slavery, free and legal actions were profoundly cruel and hateful. The same is true of abortion, the worst moral evil of our time.

Those who justify immoral actions in the name of freedom, while failing to discuss the ethical dimension of those actions, keep society in moral obscurity and darkness.

Emphasis mine. Read the entire piece here on The Maine Family Policy Council’s website. (via Joe. My. God.)

I can honestly say that I’ve never heard, read or participated in a discussion in favor of what the author of the above calls “immoral actions” where there wasn’t profound — often heart-wrenching — consideration given to ethical considerations.

Have you?

An Afternoon Spent Bowling with Little Children

May 182010

Eight weeks after starting a new drug and five after halting intake of an old drug I can truthfully say the thought of an afternoon spent bowling in the company of little children does not fill me with unreasonable horror. While I’d hardly call it “gleeful” (maybe glee sets in after another eight weeks?), it’s lovely to be even partially free from the anhedonia which tried to squat where Cymbalta once lived.

When these small people who share my house leave the house for school in somewhat less than an orderly fashion I can shepherd them out with a joke instead of a snarl. I can fold laundry, unload the dishwasher and clean up the counters before my back starts screaming. No electrical shocks have zapped me in days. I can scoop cat poop while whistling a merry tune.

Well, maybe not that last one, but I will tell you this: I’ve gotten off every night this week, a feat not seen in the confines of my bedroom in many, many months.

These are good signs, right?

I am grateful for good medical care and the very many friends who have checked in on me. “Is it ok to ask how you’re doing,” they hesitantly question. “We have a business relationship but I read your blog too. I hope this is not intrusive.” Of course not, I assure them. If I write about it then I’m cool with you knowing about it, unless you’re one of the approximately five people I’ve asked not to read but who probably don’t listen anyhow. Thank you for checking in on me, everybody. It has made a huge difference; you should continue to do so with the knowledge that it’s not upsetting and that, as always happens in these situations, adversity draws close people who otherwise might not have connected.

Conversely I am sorry — deeply sorry — for the one relationship that failed to survive the upheaval.

Now all I can do is wait and hope that the new medication will keep working and that the side effects won’t be unmanageable, because I’d really like to continue to face afternoons spent bowling with little children with something other than dread and horror.

[Note -- this entry was edited after posting by admin]

Stupid Parents

May 172010

During the three hours that all my children are in school, I never turn on the television. I see no reason to mar the quiet with anything other than the tap of computer keys and the omnipresent hum of dishwasher or laundry.

And yet today I did; the little ones has left on their cartoon (a treat earned only when they manage to get ready for school without half-killing each other — in other words, very rarely) and I’d wrapped myself in a blanket on the couch before realizing that I couldn’t reach the teevee remote to turn it off. I could, however, reach the cable remote to change the channels, so I flipped through ’til I found something that seemed likely to play quietly in the background without causing too much attention leak.

I was wrong. I couldn’t tear my attention away as a set of young, first-time parents prepared their infant for bed on the night they got home for the hospital. My, that’s odd, I thought. They’re putting on their own jammies too. They’re getting into bed. They’re turning out the lights. Could it be that they actually expect to be able to go to sleep?

I could picture the crew LOLing to themselves as they filmed the weary parents getting up again and again and again to tend to their son, who had no intention of settling down for the night. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him!” the father moaned over a shot of a clock ticking past 3:32am. “We assumed he’d sleep through the night!”

Can they possibly be so stupid, I wondered, but before the thought was fully formed I realized that of course they could be so stupid. All first-time parents are so stupid; even when told point-blank that a new baby robs one of the ability to eat, sleep, bathe and eliminate in a timely fashion they will not believe you. They will always think that they can somehow do it better, that their baby will be different from all the other babies and will let his worthy parents carry on unaffected. Silly parents, I thought, watching the TLC couple grow frustrated with the dozenth diaper-change of the morning. Silly, stupid parents.

Then came time for the ending interview, wherein the new family poses before the cameras for some final pithy thoughts. “We will love him forever,” said the mother. Tears ran down her cheeks. “No matter what he decides to do with his life, no matter what choices he ends up making, we will always love him.”

And I cried too, because I hope that for that family it is true. So many other families make similar statements only to renege when it turns out their child’s decisions and choices are in conflict with their own. Would this family, confounded now by an infant who won’t sleep, be able to love a son who grows into the kind of person they never expected?

For his sake I most sincerely hope so.

Disconnect

May 112010

Although she lives several states away, we’ve talked and read each others’ blogs for long enough that I’m not sure we’d know each other better if we shared a back-yard fence. Because of this it was no surprise when early last year she told me that her husband had finally ended their marriage.

They’d been struggling for years and while I wasn’t going to be the one to tell her so, I had little hope that they’d celebrate another anniversary. She continued to push therapy and plain old hanging in there but by early last year he was all talked out. He packed a suitcase and left one Friday before she returned home from work; when spring officially arrived he was ensconced in the comfort of his new girlfriend’s home and quite cheerfully helping to raise her children.

My friend accepted all this with better grace than I would have. At least she did until summer passed, and then fall, and then the entirety of winter without her husband filing for divorce. Filing was the only contention between them. They’d lived in an apartment and produced no children. Their cars were paid for and owned one apiece. The most valuable property jointly owned was a television. In short, theirs should have been as fast, simple and painless as any divorce could be.

But as he was the one who wished to be apart, he felt that it was his job to file even though they reside in a no-fault state and the outcome would be the same no matter who initiated the paperwork. As weeks and months passed she periodically confronted him. “Why haven’t you filed yet?” she’d ask, and every time he had some entirely rational reason. Work was extra busy. He lacked the funds. The office had unexpectedly closed early. A winter illness forced him into bed. Then he’d promise to perform the distasteful task the coming week, but Friday would once again arrive with no divorce filed. “I’ll take the paperwork in,” my friend offered, but each time her ex peevishly refused. He was adamant that the job should be his and cranky at being pressured about it.

Painful as it was, I’ve no doubt that my friend’s husband did the right thing by moving out. But the constant lame excuses about filing for what promised to be a quick, easy divorce — and one that he wanted — made me furious by proxy. I wanted my friend not to have to wonder when if ever he was going to follow through, or face his annoyance every time she asked if the deed was done. I wanted her to be free in every way to move on to the next big thing in her life. I’ll admit that I bugged her about it more than I should have. “What’s your next step?” I asked each time she told me that he failed to file, pressing her for answers when clearly there were none. Months passed in impasse punctuated by intermittent pressure from me.

Then one day I was surprised to find that she’d addressed this very topic in her (very vanilla) book/movie/music blog. She and her ex began as strangers in adjacent airplane seats, she wrote, strangers who over the course of an hours-long flight had developed a fast, intense intimacy. Now the flight has come to an end. The plane sits at the gate. Soon they’ll walk down the jetway and depart for who knows where with no more than vague, half-hearted plans ever to speak again.

My divorce was different. Whether we like it or not our children bind us together as long as they live; they force our relationship to grow and improve even after we’re free from the burden of being married. As my friend and her husband are not similarly motivated, is it any wonder that they let every other passenger deplane first? That they are the last to emerge into the terminal? That they linger a few extra moments at the gate before rushing off to catch the next flight away from each other and into some unknown future?

After reading her piece and feeling the breath catch in my chest with shame at being such an unfeeling idiot, I’ve decided that if in the future I am tempted to bother her about the filing’s progress I will endeavor to keep shut my big flappy mouth.

Not Soon Enough

Apr 282010

We live in a country where a high-school senior can be left out of her yearbook because someone decided she wore the wrong clothes. Where a big-city newspaper fear-mongers about those who are different. Where women are required to endure probes shoved up their vaginas before they’re deemed ready to have abortions. Where harassment is legal–nay, even encouraged–against people who are brown.

And all day, reading about this hate and fear and insanity, I’ve been thinking over the words written by The Beautiful Kind’s webmaster as he explained why this morning her site was abruptly pulled offline:

“But the ultimate question is this: despite whatever information may be unveiled about someone’s personal life, would that suddenly alter their ability to be a quality person to us? Perhaps in a very real way, the only wrongdoing that we might accuse others of lies only within our own imagination.”

This is a lesson I hope my children will all know long before they hit kindergarten. It’s a lesson we as a nation should have learned in 1963: Content of character matters; it is in fact the only thing that matters. Yet nearly 47 years later we still make decision about people based on traits that have nothing to do with character.

Will we ever learn?

Convincing

Apr 012010

A news story which I shared on Facebook about access to abortion under the new health care plan prompted a novella-length response by an old boyfriend who disagreed with the author’s point of view, my posting of it, and (because of the audacious views contained therein) my very right to breathe the sweet fresh air that hangs above these United States.

Or at least that’s how it seemed. Nevertheless I wrote back a calm, reasoned response which I’m quite certain he read as Death, death, death to all the innocent unborn bebbehs.

Le sigh, I thought. I’ve made yet another enemy through the magic of Facebook. Yay me.

As I fully expected to be removed without further ado from his list of friends, you can imagine my surprise when began talking to me later. Great, I thought. Now he’s going to rail at me via chat over what a horrific person I am simply because I have this thing about bodily autonomy and, you know, science. And at first my prediction seemed to be correct. Our conversation spiraled through health care, perceived promiscuity and masturbation.

Seriously? I questioned at one point. You’re seriously going to teach your children that masturbation is a sin? How in the world do you expect them to get through adolescence without masturbating?

He backpedaled a bit, admitting that perhaps masturbation itself was not so much of an issue as were the fantasies that typically accompanied it. “Not to give you too much information,” he said, “But I picture women I know when I masturbate. I can’t imagine they’d be too happy that I was lusting over them.”

There’s no such thing as TMI for me, I said, and I bet most of those women would be briefly flattered and then not give it another thought.

Then the conversation turned to unexpected pregnancies. Words like “responsibility,” “sin,” and “murder” came from him; I countered with references to “respect,” “choice” and my own personal favorite, “If abortion became illegal would your family be willing to adopt even one single child born to an unwilling mother?”

As the clock approached midnight he begged off for bed. “I know I’m never going to convince you to pray outside an abortion clinic,” he said.

I’d never want to convince you to act as a clinic escort, I responded. But maybe in talking we’ll both learn to be more compassionate toward those on the opposite side of this issue.

And I guess that’s as much as anyone can hope to achieve.

————

A short programming note: I will be out of town Thursday so posting will be light or non-existent until I am once again ensconced on my Official Blogger’s Couch and am wearing my Official Blogger’s Comfy Jammies. Thank you for your understanding.

Older Entries

Chocolate Ice Cream

This is a Thing I Need to Remember

"God Did Not Create Anal Sex"

Like a Ride in an Amusement Park

The Shining Whiteness of the Bridal Gown

An Afternoon Spent Bowling with Little Children

Stupid Parents

Disconnect

Not Soon Enough

Convincing

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